Come And Rest Your Bones With Me
by define-serenity
Summary: [Barry/Eddie] The momentary panic in his own chest abates once he locates Barry sprawled over the entire couch, face down, one leg on the floor like he's a ragdoll haphazardly tossed there by a small child. (OUR ROAD IS LONG VERSE)


Barry/Eddie, 1655 words, pg-rated

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_**Come And Rest Your Bones With Me**_

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"Bar?" he calls, the minimalist décor easing his voice through the entire apartment at once; an unlocked door means Barry already used his spare key to gain entrance, and even though he has yet to figure out how Barry continually beats him to his apartment when they both leave work around the same time (must be traffic, he reasons), he's still glad Barry has taken to using the key.

"Babe, you here?" he calls again when his first attempt goes unanswered. He drops his keys on the cupboard to his right, lowers his bag to the floor, eyes skimming the logos on the letters he grabbed from the mailbox downstairs. "Barry?" he tries one last time as he shrugs out of his jacket, folding it around a hanger before he leaves it dangling from a peg on the wall.

From where he stands he can see the bedroom's empty, the bathroom door's open, and as far as he can tell Barry hasn't touched anything else. Two steps forward tells him Barry isn't in the kitchen, but the closer vantage point finally reveals Barry lying on the couch. For a second or two he fears the worst, that he'll find Barry shaking and struggling for air like so many months ago, arms folded around his own shoulders, sweat broken out in his hairline – he thought they were past this, that he'd given Barry all the tools to work through his greatest fears. Was he wrong?

He descends the two steps down into his living room, the silence pervasive in an almost violent way, but the momentary panic in his own chest abates once he locates Barry sprawled over the entire couch, face down, one leg on the floor like he's a ragdoll haphazardly tossed there by a small child.

And he laughs. "What's wrong?"

"Bad day," Barry mutters, half his face smushed into the black cotton of the couch.

He pockets his hands, amused by Barry's current state; there's an old wives' tale that police officers are allergic to paperwork, but they'd had an unusually calm day at the precinct. Barry had ran back and forth between the bullpen and his lab all day trying to get files in order for Internal Affairs, even managed a few round-trips to Jitters, a ceaseless unrest in his long limbs. They hadn't caught any new cases, The Flash put out a fire or two around the city, and they'd been able to sneak in a kiss or two over lunch.

A quiet day was a good day at the CCPD.

Yet, somehow, he gets the sense he missed something.

The last time he saw Barry like this was the day Joe told him about the so-called metahumans and he'd scarcely avoided getting killed by that– _that thing_ he'd come face to face with. Barry had been closed off and moody all day, he'd seemed angry and defeated at the same time, and completely uncommunicative. When he'd showed up on his doorstep later that night he'd crushed him in a hug that grinded his bones together, and Barry hadn't let go until the next morning.

"What's really going on?"

Barry turns on his back and sighs, carefully deciding which truths he should know. Because he's not an idiot; there are things Barry doesn't talk about, because it's too hard or because he doesn't trust him, he's not sure, but there have been secrets between them from the start. Up until now he hasn't questioned it, because even an idiot could've seen Barry struggled after he woke up from his coma, and he didn't mind helping him through that. These past few months though, after growing so unimaginably close, he's seen Barry in ways few others have, and he's fallen in love with this mess of a man now sulking on his couch.

"Don't really want to talk about it."

"Okay." He walks over and sits down by Barry's side, idly sliding a hand underneath his shirt. It hurts him to think that there are things Barry can confide to Joe or Iris but not him, when Barry deemed it impossible to talk to either of them about his panic attacks. Maybe Barry needs time, maybe whatever they're becoming still needs to take root as firmly as his relationships with Joe and Iris. He trusts that Barry shares what's most important to him. "What do you say we order some food and watch a game?"

Barry quirks an eyebrow, hand coming down over where his rests on his abdomen. "You hate football."

"Will it cheer you up?"

Barry huffs a smile. "Yeah."

"There you go."

He stands and kisses Barry's forehead on his way to the kitchen, where he quickly leafs through the few take-out menus Barry insisted he needed to own – he used to make his own meals, he still did, it covered time he didn't need to sit around alone in a near-empty apartment, the black and white colors his own choices, yet cold and emotionless. It's strange how a few menus and a superman mug in his kitchen have ineffably warmed his apartment and made it more of a home than his first twelve months here combined.

He orders too much food for two, though experience taught him Barry usually takes care of any leftovers by morning, and quickly changes into some sweats and his favorite grey henley.

By the time he makes it back to the living room Barry has sat up, his face buried in the palm of his hands. Even like this, it's hard to deny Barry looks like home– at odds with his surroundings in his red shirt, yet ingrained and comfortable in an apartment not his own. He likes Barry here. He _loves_ him here. If it were up to him he'd have Barry here all the time, make this more permanent, but there's always the matter of the secrets they keep from Joe, from the captain. And then there are Barry's secrets; there are too many secrets all around and one day he fears they might buckle underneath the weight of them.

If they want this to be real, if they want a chance to make this work at all, everything needs to come to light.

He pads over and climbs onto the couch, sitting down behind Barry. "You really don't want to tell me what's going on?" He places his chin on Barry's shoulder, rubs circles at the small of his back.

Barry glances at him briefly, adam's apple bobbing as he swallows hard. "I've been thinking about what Dr Wells said at the press conference."

"About the particle accelerator?"

Barry nods, toeing off his shoes.

It's not the whole truth, he realizes, Barry's had too long to think about his answer, but the nature of this one has him worried. When Dr Wells gave his press conference months ago, admitted to knowing the particle accelerator could do more harm than good, all he'd had eye for was Barry; he had few triggers, but they lay clearly outlined around the circumstances of his accident– the lightning, the coma, the time he lost, and to hear a man he admired so much admit to his mistakes took a clear toll on Barry.

Barry rubs the back of his neck, "Ahh," he exasperates and takes a deep breath, pressing back into his body. Today really had been hard for Barry, for whatever reason, so he kisses Barry's shoulder, drags a hand through his hair, compelling him backwards into his arms. It's a little mismatched, Barry's long legs in between his, Barry sneaking fingers underneath his henley so a warm hand can wander up his torso.

He kisses Barry's forehead again, fingers drawing lines in his hair. "You still spend time there, don't you?" he asks, carefully tracing along the outlines of Barry's trauma.

Barry smushes his face against his neck. "Caitlin likes to follow up on her patients."

His hand stills in Barry's hair, the sudden thought that there might be something wrong with Barry leaving him a little breathless. What if the coma took more than those nine months? Most people don't survive getting struck by lightning, what if it left a more permanent mark Barry hasn't told anyone about?

"You're okay though, right?"

"Yeah," Barry breathes, pushing a kiss to his neck. "Perfectly healthy."

It's another carefully outlined answer in a whirlpool of bad excuses, but besides Barry's ceaseless unrest he senses a weight on his shoulders that doesn't merely encompass his secrets; sometimes it's like this man of his carries the entire world. That's why he hasn't said anything, why he said 'I love you' without expecting it back; Barry still has a lot to figure out, and unless it takes too long, unless Barry's secrets break them, he'll be here, patiently waiting. God knows they both still have things to figure out.

"If you don't count your humongous appetite."

Barry laughs, a most welcome sound through all the interference of real life, and pinches his side. "Shut up."

His lips brush Barry's forehead in a smile, happy in his moment right here. Barry once came to him to work through his panic attacks, but now he comes to him to relax, or for comfort, or just to be with him. He can live with that for now. If they have to build towards something at a slower pace because of their circumstances, that's okay.

Because Barry used his key.

Because Barry comes to him.

"You won't lose any more time," he murmurs, steadily sinking deeper into the couch; he could stay here forever and be perfectly content.

Barry smiles up at him. "That a personal guarantee, detective?"

He smiles too, humming softly when Barry's mouth finds his, their lips trading kisses back and forth that blank out any truths unspoken, any wishes unfulfilled, because whatever they have– it's real.

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**_fin_**

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End file.
